


Except Because

by htebazytook



Category: 21 Jump Street
Genre: Angst, First Time, Humor, M/M, Romance, Slash, Smut, season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-21
Updated: 2008-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-07 08:21:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I've valiantly fought my need to write a 21 Jump Street fic for about a year, but it looks like one slipped out anyway.  I'm not going to lie—my knowledge of Jump Street canon comes more or less from the scenes Johnny is in.  (Can you blame me?)  Takes place at the beginning of the 4th season, and I'm operating on the premise that lots of things happen in between each episode.  Also note that I took great pains to avoid naughty words in honor of good and decent 80's television, not easy for a girl whose favorite word begins with F.  Title from <a href="http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-do-not-love-you-except-because-i-love-you/">a Pablo Neruda poem</a>.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Except Because

**Author's Note:**

> I've valiantly fought my need to write a 21 Jump Street fic for about a year, but it looks like one slipped out anyway. I'm not going to lie—my knowledge of Jump Street canon comes more or less from the scenes Johnny is in. (Can you blame me?) Takes place at the beginning of the 4th season, and I'm operating on the premise that lots of things happen in between each episode. Also note that I took great pains to avoid naughty words in honor of good and decent 80's television, not easy for a girl whose favorite word begins with F. Title from [a Pablo Neruda poem](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-do-not-love-you-except-because-i-love-you/).

**Title:** Except Because  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** NC-17 (really pretty pornographic, yep)  
 **Disclaimer:** <\--  
 **Pairings:** Tom Hanson/Doug Penhall, possible sidenote undertones of Hanson/Booker, but that's up to you  
 **Author's Notes:** I've valiantly fought my need to write a 21 Jump Street fic for about a year, but it looks like one slipped out anyway. I'm not going to lie—my knowledge of Jump Street canon comes more or less from the scenes Johnny is in. (Can you blame me?) Takes place at the beginning of the 4th season, and I'm operating on the premise that lots of things happen in between each episode. Also note that I took great pains to avoid naughty words in honor of good and decent 80's television, not easy for a girl whose favorite word begins with F. Title from [a Pablo Neruda poem](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-do-not-love-you-except-because-i-love-you/).

 

 

Tom's hair was considerably shorter. He looked darn clean cut for a guy who just got out of the big house there in his nice suit, shirt buttoned up more than usual. The scarlet tie hanging out of his pocket spoiled it a little.

Short, short hair. No more ponytails for Tom Hanson. Looking wholesome was always easy for him—suited his personality—but then again he looked every bit as natural with headbands or leather jackets or tuxes or ripped jeans or _hairnets_ , for God's sake. He'd become so much broodier, prison sentence aside. It was worrying.

"Hey, uh, you sure you don't wanna drive again?"

Hanson didn't respond right away, occupied as he was with his silent vigil of the road ahead. "Oh. Nah. S'okay." He tilted his head in Penhall's direction but didn't actually look at him.

"Right. Okay." Penhall drummed his fingers on the wheel, antsy. "You wanna go for a drink or somethin'?"

"Um . . ." Hanson smeared a hand over his face. "Yeah, sure," he said, sounding a little less distant.

*

They didn't sit at the bar 'cause it was more of a restaurant with a bar than a bar with a restaurant.

"Okay, fellas," the waitress said, weight all on one leg, making her hip jut out—man, she thought she was real cool, didn't she? "I'm gonna hafta see some ID."

Penhall dug his badge out of his pocket. This happened pretty regularly—probably a good thing when you thought about it. The waitress had been talking more to Hanson though. Hanson just sat there staring at drink rings on the table.

"Hey, you hear me, mister?" She was pretty. Huge dangly earrings like Judy. And Hanson hadn't even given her a second glance—that was assuming he'd given her a first glance.

Penhall leaned in to mediate, lowering his voice but still very audible. "My friend here, he's just had a rough time—he's a cop, too—and he's twenty-six. Aw, come on lady." She wasn't budging.

Hanson snapped out of it and rummaged for his own badge, realized he didn't actually have it back yet and let loose a short laugh. "I don't even carry anything else around. I mean why would I possibly need to. I'm a police officer." He felt like he was arresting this girl. That was his usual line. Whipping out their badges all cunning and coordinated was another favorite. He felt so removed from it right now. "A soda's fine. Whatever." He pushed a hand through his hair.

The waitress had seemed to change her mind after seeing him behave like a human being and returned in five minutes with their beers.

*

"Nothing ever dampens your spirits, eh Doug? Not even me?"

But Penhall wasn't cool with Hanson's nonchalance. "You can't be serious!"

"Why not? Just because you can't be serious doesn't mean _I_ can't be serious," he said with an edge.

"That's not what a meant. You know it!" Penhall brought his beer to his lips, mumbled into it, "Quitting the force, you can't be _serious_."

Hanson sighed. His drink clunked on the table when he put it down. He rubbed at his wrist (lacking the leather band) and his eyes stared, trying to find a better way to get through to him. "I guess I should save my breath and not say you don't understand, huh?" He proffered a cringing smile.

"No, Hanson, I _do_ understand." Hanson looked blank. "Don't you remember? I'm the one that said it when we were in that juvenile lock up. And I know it ate away at you because it sure did me. But you just can't let it consume you, man."

That was only what started it. He couldn't believe the hell he was sending all those kids to, for so many stupid things that didn't matter in the long run. Who cares if you sold drugs—a hefty fine, some price to be paid would probably rehabilitate you better than locking you up and throwing away the key. Suddenly everything they did in the name of justice seemed corrupt or futile, something . . . He just couldn't see clearly after that. He couldn't see why the right thing was right, couldn't see the evilness of the wrong thing, and all that obscurity had landed him in prison. Yes, it turned out that a scant couple of weeks undercover in a kiddie prison had worked its mental magic over him, had latched onto him as firmly as it had any teenage punk who was supposed to be there. Hell, he _deserved_ to be there.

"Yeah," he said, unable to wrap his mind around any of his thoughts, tangled as they were. He took a satisfying gulp of the cheap beer, enough to actually feel it. It was kind of funny—despite appearances Penhall was more of a lightweight than he was.

"I just don't wanna see you like this, buddy," Penhall implored.

A smile bounced off of Hanson's lips. He focused on Penhall. "I'm sorry," he told him.

*

It was so nice to be home. No—it was so nice to be somewhere he could finally relax. It was even easier to relax with beer. Beers. He wanted to say fifteen, but he also wanted to say two, and it didn't matter anyway . . . He tried out his scheme of relaxation against a curiously soft wall that moved. "Oh, hi, Doug, what'reyou doing in my wall?"

"Yer so pretty," Penhall sighed into Hanson's hair.

Hanson made a face. "'Scuse me?"

"Oh! I meant rugged and manly, _not_ pretty, no sir." Penhall held up his hands in surrender.

A slow smile overtook Hanson's glare and he laughed and sort of fell into Penhall again, inhaling his cologne.

"Thanks for rescuing me Doug . . ."

"I'm yer knight in shinin' armor," Penhall announced theatrically.

"Well . . ."

"Right? _Right?_ "

"Well, ya'know, well." Hanson was settling against Penhall like he was a chair. "Technickle, technically, Booker saved me." Hanson thought about this and his face darkened. "That—that _jerk_. He wears eyeliner, _make up_ , jeez . . ."

"Hey, uh, whyd'ya hate 'im so much anyway Tommy?" Penhall asked, touching Hanson's hair, thinking about social grooming. I mean, Hanson could be kinda like a monkey, jumping up on desks all the time . . .

"He jus' gets under my skin."

"Mm." Penhall blew on Hanson's earring and it flopped around. Hanson shivered.

" _I_ don't wanna wear eyeliner, y'know," he insisted. "It's just," Hanson turned around to face him which made them weirdly close, "I'm tryin'a look like a kid, y'know. Y'know, Doug?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know whatcha mean. It makes yer eyes look like big gorgeous ping pong balls, too."

Hanson opened his mouth even though no retort seemed forthcoming and therefore froze like that. Penhall placed a hand on his shoulder, gave him an encouraging look. Hanson shivered again but let Penhall support his weight. "I," he said with the greatest dignity, "I _bowl_ , Douglas."

 _Bowling_. Hanson was so—he was so _easy_ to watch when he was bowling. It was so fluid and good to watch. He looked so good when he was in his element. Hanson looked so good right now even _without_ eyeliner. It was probably because his deadened eyes were rightfully soulful here, inches from Penhall's face. It probably had something to do with Hanson's elegant hand winding around his arm, twisting his shirtsleeve.

"Like, like oceans filled with chocolate pudding," Penhall amended.

"You hungry or somethin'?" Hanson asked, distant, scrambling around for normalcy. He felt so damn claustrophobic, undid the top buttons on his shirt, felt Penhall watching him, something undid itself in his mind. The pause was filled with air pressing and holding him in place and his eyes flickered down to Penhall's mouth. He should move away, the couch was more comfortable, it made sense . . .

Penhall's hand rose from Hanson's shoulder to his face, thumb brushing his upper lip. Hanson's eyes blinked and closed as Penhall's fingers migrated through his hair, felt very nice, felt comforting. He sighed. When he opened his eyes Penhall was waiting and they locked glazily, drunkenly, familiar. Penhall was a forest—warm eyes glazy and tawny eyebrows crinkled. Or maybe that was just his cologne bringing forests into it, Hanson really liked his cologne, he'd never thought of telling him that before.

"I really like yer smell. Scent."

Penhall started. "Oh, uh. I'm glad you like it."

"Yeah." Hanson looked down, feeling the moment beginning to plummet. He wasn't sure if it was too late for this but he was drunk enough to know it was coming out of his mouth no matter what. "We should kiss," he said with reluctant resignation.

But Penhall wasn't in a helpful state for comprehension. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Hanson concluded, matter-of-fact as he reached for Penhall's other arm and placed it on his body like a magnet. "That cool with you?"

Penhall looked torn, childish, whiny, adorable. "Well, yeah . . ."

"Okie dokie." Without further preamble, Hanson pressed his mouth over Penhall's.

Penhall couldn't understand fully tensing and completely relaxing simultaneously, but nevertheless he did. They were situated at an uncomfortable angle for him, but he said nothing because that would break it, and he did nothing forward like rearrange them because that would enhance it—he was quite happy where he was, thank you very much. He couldn't process how it physically felt to kiss Hanson, but he was exceedingly aware of how he reacted to the mere knowledge. Telling his arms to move didn't motivate them to do anything other than clutch at him, and telling his lips to exercise more dexterity was a lost cause. But kissing Hanson so open-mouthed and suddenly was also completely and perfectly acceptable, especially with the unstoppable groan that rushed through his friend and reverberated through _him_.

Their mouths started stuttering, backing off for longer before diving back in, until it was just Hanson nipping at Penhall's bottom lip and hearts hammering. Hanson's brain was beginning to process things, but he couldn't bring himself to move and they just stood there breathing until Hanson opened his eyes to meet Penhall's again. Both of them felt a little too cognizant for their own good.

Hanson cleared his throat and took a delicate step back. His hair was an utter mess and his mouth was shining and he was still breathing quite hard as he scratched nervously at the side of his head, cleared his throat again.

"Yeah." Penhall coughed, it had come out fairly high-pitched. "Well, uh, I'd better get goin'."

"It's late."  
"It's gettin' late," Hanson said at the same time.

Penhall looked sheepish. He was becoming lightheaded with the effort of regulating his breathing and couldn't think of anything to say so he just nodded and flashed a friendly smile and left.

Driving was a stupid idea—he was a cop for God's sake—but the alternative was infinitely more terrifying to him right now.

*

It was uncannily easy for them to settle back into their old patterns. Hanson had found safety in chewing gum and burying himself in paperwork and Penhall just cracked jokes at every opportunity for their conversations to turn down a different path. Penhall was tremendously relieved that one incident of drunken confusion wasn't about to destroy their friendship.

There was another side to it though. They may have been cool enough with each other, but there were the times Hanson decided to twirl pencils around in class and put them in his mouth, or the times he indulged the girls that flirted with him, or the times he ran a hand luxuriously through his hair or fell asleep with his neck exposed appetizingly or . . .

Well, it was just a little distracting, that's all.

"Hey, Doug, you wanna help me with this report?"

"Yeah, sure."

Hanson was forever asking for his help with reports, and when you thought about it it didn't make a lot of sense; Hanson was the organized one, not to mention he had retained a sense of grammar. In fact Penhall got the feeling he might actually pay attention in class sometimes.

He approached his mismatched desk. Hanson wore a starchy white shirt but had the sleeves rolled up, some buttons undone, a black vest. The way it looked on him bordered on the obscene and it was hard to avoid thinking about taking it off. There was just something about vests.

"I dunno, I'm mostly done but my brain's just getting all muddled. You wanna look at it for me?" It was plain to see Hanson still had a rain cloud over his head. It _was_ starting to dampen Penhall's spirits.

"No problem."

Maybe it was the way it flattened against Hanson's body. Maybe it was the way it came up in the back and begged him to slip hands underneath. Better not think too much into it.

Penhall reached over him to grab the report, brushed Hanson's bare arm with his hand accidentally. He felt Hanson tense but pretended not to realize and glued his eyes to the paper where he reread one sentence ten times without comprehending a single word. Maybe it was the way it parted in the front and was in all ways superfluous . . .

"Yeah, I mean, uh, I think what you have here is okay. I dunno, maybe you could add something about how they're making the Freshmen girls buy the stuff. I mean I know it isn't really hard evidence but it counts for something . . ."

When he looked up Hanson's eyes were latched onto him and his mouth was open slightly. He looked drunk. But, good God, drunk was utterly hot on him—how had Penhall never noticed this before? Like, _really_ noticed?

Hanson quickly focused on the ground. "Yeah that's a good idea. Thanks." He extracted the report from Penhall's grip carefully.

"Penhall, Hanson, my office."

Hanson sighed, shuffled his papers and trudged to Fuller's office, walking ahead of Penhall and avoiding his eyes.

Ioki was there. It was kind of hard to miss him with the bright green low cut shirt, the massive shoulder pads and the feather earring.

Fuller was pacing.

"What is it?" Penhall asked.

Hanson just stood there looking put upon.

"They're selling drugs," Fuller said and sat down in his chair. He seriously couldn't leave his office for once and come to _them_?

"Yeah, we knew that," Hanson said testily.

"Apparently they're hiding it in the pillows," Ioki grimaced. He grimaced at everything, good or bad. Hanson felt bad for his girlfriends—there was just no way to read him.

"Sewing pot into pillows, huh?" He snickered.

"During Home Ec.," Fuller continued, as dead serious as possible in an effort to make the whole thing sound less ridiculous. "We think the teacher might be in on it, too. That's what you two have got to find out."

"Damn," Penhall said regretfully, "who would've thought a gang of Catholic schoolgirls could get up to drug dealing in sewing class . . ."

Hanson gave him a deafeningly blank look. Nobody else seemed to notice when Penhall parodied himself to make a joke. He stopped the laugh bubbling in his throat.

"Yeah, yeah. Okay, you two, get out of here." Fuller waved them away. They were halfway out the door when he called after them, "I'll expect to see that report on my desk sometime _today_ , Hanson."

Hanson gestured with said report irritatedly and more or less smacked Penhall in the face with it which sent the pages flying every which way. They both dropped to the ground to collect them, kept reaching for the same one and saying _Sorry_ at the same time. Once it was all sorted out Hanson didn't lose a second of momentum and retreated quickly to his desk, still avoiding Penhall's eyes like the plague. Penhall paused before making a break for his own desk and managed to stumble over its general disorder in the process. He took a deep steadying breath and tried to concentrate on—well, actually there was nothing for him to do. Dammit. He spent the rest of the day telling himself he didn't _want_ to glance at Hanson whenever it happened.

*

Although Hanson was a pretty-boy in a general sense that wasn't what made him so attractive. It was the way he moved—casual yet measured. He didn’t speak when he had nothing to say, kept quiet until his voice was needed, walked with fluidity, toyed with objects absently. He was very tense without moving tensely, if that made any sense . . .

The drug case at the Catholic school was over and done with. Thank God (in a manner of speaking)—he'd couldn't keep dealing with brainless rich girls who couldn't imagine they were responsible for anything but their hair. Couldn't pretend to be like them (however deeply he may have cared for his own hair). Really couldn't deal with Hanson acting aggressively ignorant, like he had at the military school. If those girls hadn't been so keen on Hanson they probably wouldn't've busted them so easily.

. . . Anytime they went on a stake out Penhall thought about the night he'd accidentally shot him. Reasons for pent up frustration with his partner had seemed less obvious back then. Ha, ha . . .

They were in a shady part of town and had parked pretty discretely. Anyway Hanson's car was old enough people wouldn't immediately suspect somebody'd be inside.

. . .They'd been stuck there for an hour in strained silence, the nicely constructed ease between them being eaten away by stray comments and stray hands and stray ogling . . .

Penhall was getting sick of dealing with all these gangs. It sounded whiny but it really was tons harder than high school stuff. Mainly because the kids in the gangs were more likely to be armed. But violence aside, their mentality was too bleak and plain and intricate to take sometimes. It was just harder for him and Hanson to fit in with these guys. So they would do the regular cop thing and end up in situations where somebody got shot or suffocated from an extreme case of awkward silence.

Judy had out and said it: "Tell you what, we sure could've used Booker on this one."

. . . And Hanson hadn't said word one about Booker's abrupt departure. He still hadn't.

 

Presently Hanson scrunched lower into the driver's seat, pulled his jacket closer around himself, sighed. Penhall opened his mouth to say something but closed it when he saw how jolting it would be to speak out of the blue like that. He shuffled around and let loose a sigh.

As if in response, Hanson rearranged himself so he was crossing his legs the other way, turned his head to look out the window. Maybe they're not gonna show. Hanson wanted to say it, drummed fingers on the car door.

Penhall covered the other window. He was beginning to zone out, staring at the black shadows and orangey splashes of occasional street lamp for too long. And then something moved—he was darn sure he'd seen _something_ so he tapped Hanson's shoulder, started to say "Hey" but it came out kinda like a pronounced exhale instead—just a bird casting shadows, not a black-clad hoodlum. He was sure Hanson had shivered.

Penhall was determined not to move, tried desperately to look relaxed but it really was a nigglingly uncomfortable position—still he was determined not to budge because he'd been shifting around enough _already_ and Hanson was being unearthly still now . . .

After endless minutes Hanson just gave up and jerkily rearranged himself again until he actually felt comfortable, even if it _was_ childish to draw his knees up and hide.

Penhall did feel a little more at ease now. He reached over to turn on the radio—why hadn't he thought of that before? But his hand stopped halfway there and just dropped onto the seat of its own volition. Pathetic, losing his nerve like that.

Hanson made a muffled amused sound and reached for the dial himself.

" _I'M LOSING MY RELIGION TRYING TO KEEP UP WITH YOU AND I DON'T KNOW—_ "

They both lunged to adjust the volume, which mean their hands collided yet again and none of this was working but eventually Penhall won the struggle and turned it down and froze, tried to look relaxed, stared at his treacherous hands.

" _—oh no, I've said too much, I haven't said enough—_ "

Hanson glanced at him—Penhall could practically feel it. Then he turned the radio off.

You know how sometimes when you're with a girl and you're thinking about what you do, like step by step? First you kiss here, then here like this, then you have to change it up—this plus this equals that. And then there were other times you just ran blindly on instinct and it was thrilling. That's what it was like with Hanson.

He wasn't even weirded out by wanting to do things to another guy. Which in turn weirded him out. It was _Hanson_ , you know? He didn't want him _because_ he was a guy.

When it happened the feeling of Penhall's lips on his woke Hanson's whole body up and he felt all the air around them pressing on his head, making him so dizzy he needed to close his eyes. Penhall's hand grasped his jaw and moved him to a nicer angle, deeper; Hanson shivered and kissed back. Every little touch of lip and tongue was so slow, so deliberate, but gaining momentum and Hanson felt like he was falling and grabbed at Penhall and pulled him closer, needing more.

Penhall groaned as he broke the contact. But he hadn't entirely retreated. "I. We. Tommy . . ."

Oh, God, he was so turned on right now, couldn't control his breathing. Doug, I want you. I just do. I want you, I want you, I want you—

A sigh. "Maybe we should be paying more attention, I mean . . ." Penhall's mouth was wet, he was panting, Hanson was pretty sure he was hard, too—why wasn't this working?

"Tommy? Anybody home?" Penhall waved.

He snapped out of it. "Oh. Sorry."

Hanson presented _such_ a picture right now. Sweet mouth, voice dark, body taut. His eyes. He was fantastically tempting and Penhall was so weak with wanting him. . .

Oh, crap, that's them. That was them. Penhall pointed emphatically.

"What?"

"That—that's their car, come on, go!"

"Wait, are you sure?"

"Yeah I'm sure, go!"

Hanson scrambled to get a foot at the pedal and jerked the car into gear. Talk about dues ex machina. Deus ex Ford Fiesta. He managed to maneuver onto the street in time to see them round another corner and accelerated loudly after them.

 

 

*

 

 

It was funny—after the Incident On the Stakeout things between them seemed to restart again. Is this how it was gonna be? Incidents followed by periods of normal everyday life that slowly fractured until another Incident came along? Doug was fine with that but, you know, he was just wondering. There was more humor in the way they were pretending this time. They'd resumed flirting, anyway. Maybe there was more intent behind it—Hanson's small gestures, Hanson's eyes—it _seemed_ like normal everyday life . . .

Penhall had to force himself to concentrate on bouncing. After his shift was over he found Hanson waiting for him around the corner with his hands buried moodily in his pockets. He looked huddled in on himself but woke up when he saw him and gave a little wave. They walked closely like they always had, arms bumping, finding it easy to lead one another. Tell ya the truth, it might have felt _more_ natural than before. Penhall inhaled the perfectly chilled night air—everything was okay. Okay.

They talked business for awhile but Hanson was starting to seem kinda removed again. Dammit, he'd thought things were okay, he really wanted to stay relieved . . .

"You know, Doug," Hanson began.

Oh, no. Penhall could practically taste what he was about to say. He had that tone. Dammit. Penhall tried very hard to look clueless. "Hm?"

"I'm thinking about quitting."

Dammit. He spoke cluelessly, put on his fake-cheerful self even though it never seemed to get through to him. Hanson only rolled his eyes. He couldn't be serious. He just couldn't be serious.

*

Hanson was starting to get annoyed with his coworkers and their endless fretting over the detective exam so he buried himself in the case, staying at the dorm every night now. If there was one thing he did enjoy about his job it was going undercover—no, not even busting people (in the name of Justice), not anymore. Sometimes he just needed to sink into someone else's shoes for awhile. _God_ , he was getting schizo in his old age. That's okay, there were lots of famous schizos, right? He was gonna be the next Picasso. Yeah.

And _Penhall_. Penhall wouldn't shut up about the stupid exam. Hanson was starting to get well and truly pissed at him. In fact he secretly hoped Penhall failed the test miserably just to knock some sense into him. Right now Hanson really wanted to grab him and _smack_ some sense into him. Or maybe he just wanted to smooch some sense into him. Ugh, whatever.

Penhall wouldn't shut up about the stupid exam or the stupid gambling or the stupid bouncer and what had happened, exactly? Hanson thought things had been so much calmer after the stakeout. The tension creeping back between them was an angrier one now. He didn't need this right now. Ugh . . .

*

Everyone wore tight jeans but few people had the power to really pull them off the way God intended. Hanson was one of those few. Also his foot was on the table. Also he was being difficult, didn't even bother to do his research about the gambling— _he_ was the one who was in on the game, not Hanson. Jeez Louise. Penhall had been starting to forget how much Hanson could annoy him with his hollier than thou moments in light of how very well he pulled off the black blazer and hair and tight jeans the way God intended.

"What's the difference?" Penhall demanded.

"The difference is that Sal isn't gonna break my kneecaps if I lose." The condescension was hard to take. Especially when he looked so pretty. His good looks were only serving to aggravate Penhall further lately.

A bitter tasting laugh shot out of his mouth. "Yeah, well, you're the expert, right?" he said, looking away from him and sipping soda and wishing it was Scotch. Still on the clock—dammit.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hanson was raising his voice.

There was that laugh again. "Well, you know, uh, I do kind of know a little bit more about it than you."

"What the hell?" Oh, wow, Hanson's eyes were on fire.

"You know what, Hanson? The least you could do is try, you know? You won't even _try_." I think—I _thought_ I saw you try . . .

"Douglas," he sighed, "what are you talking about?"

"The detective exam! What do you think? I mean, I mean you _seriously_ won't even take it?" Penhall was slipping into his buoyant way of talking now—had to be some kinda instinct to cushion his words, couldn't seem to stop it. "You'd totally _ace_ it, Hanson! You know you would. What else do you think you're gonna do, huh? You're a _cop_ , Hanson! You _are_ a cop. For Chrissake your father—"

"Oh, can it, Doug."

" _Listen to me_!" Penhall had a hold of his wrist now.

Hanson jumped at the contact and wriggled away violently. He recoiled as much and as quickly as possible until it meant he had to stand up. Oxygen came gushing out of his lungs—hadn't even realized he'd been holding his breath and Penhall was watching him, he felt like Penhall was watching every tiny movement all over his body and suppressed a shiver. "I am listening to you," he spoke, slowly and subdued, "and I'm not hearing anything, and I have to go, so . . . so, see you at work."

*

This kid was seriously out of his mind. Hanson was starting to feel bad for him, which annoyed him because it meant he had to let his guise go and be genuine. He hated that he cared—made it so much harder to bust them.

Someone walked into the diner. Two someones. A Penhall someone among them. Just great . . .

Penhall took the opportunity to be a jerk and Hanson took the opportunity to be even more pissed at him. He tried to glare but ended up gazing at Penhall as he did what he did best: acting. Just like him. Penhall couldn't lie through his teeth like he could though—Penhall caught him staring. Hanson favored him with a sly sour smile while his heart thudded.

*

Hanson found him brooding at his desk. Huh, it was usually the other way around wasn't it?

"What do you want," Penhall said without looking up.

I'm not going to say anything about the detective exam. You're being so stupid. Why are you being so stupid? He sighed. "Look, Doug, we have to talk to Darrell, and we should do it together, so c'mon, let's go."

"He's not _my_ friend." Still engrossed in his nonsense paperwork. He was acting so damn childish. Hanson was getting fed up. He let loose a sound like a snarl and yanked him upright by the front of his shirt which meant he could feel Penhall's cold necklace and warm body.

"Yeah, I'm coming, jeez!" He seized Hanson's hands and threw them off. "God . . ." Moved lethargically around the desk.

Why are you being so stupid? He stood there until Penhall was halfway across the room before following, not trusting his hands to behave.

*

Yeah, Penhall was generally pissed off at the world, but seeing Hanson's face in the face of Darrell's pathetic display—hell, hearing every last resort flickering and dying in that phone call was getting to him. He did feel bad. It was thrilling to be on the same wavelength as his partner again, but it wasn't necessarily a good kind of thrilling. The bad tension between them seemed to be on its way out, but that only meant the other tension was lying in wait to ambush them again.

Two hours later Hanson decided to let the bouncer knock some sense into Penhall for him. It was okay though. They were cool now.

 

. . . And when it was Hanson's turn to be the bouncer he thought he had it down pat what with all of Penhall's obsessing and took great pleasure in turning him down at the door. What? They were cool. He couldn't help himself. Penhall laughed about it later, and Hanson laughed too and he was starting to second guess his second guesses about being a cop.

Seeing Linda again had kinda shaken him up, though.

 

 

*

 

 

"It's four in the morning!"

Hanson was in his living room bearing his heart, explaining how much he now loved his long lost love. There was lipstick smeared all over him and his hair was messed up and he was so disarmingly sincere about it. Penhall couldn't completely believe what he was hearing. Hanson making out with some girl and thinking it was okay to wake Penhall up and discuss his feelings for her. Hanson just sitting there justifying himself when they both knew damn well he was desperate for something to make sense—give him a purpose again. Linda had come at the right time, that was all. Jeez, Hanson didn't even believe _himself_. But the icing on the cake was how he was beseeching Penhall to agree his newfound solution to life was credible despite everything.

"I can't help it."

He loved her. Hanson thought he loved her.

*

It wasn't that Hanson didn't know. He _knew_ he wasn't actually responsible for any of the people that haunted him. He didn't kill Ioki. He didn't kill Amy. He didn't kill anybody in the teenage prison. Dad's death really hadn't been his fault. But with all the blind hope of a child at Christmas he couldn't stop believing how tremendously responsible he truly must have been. It _wasn't_ his fault, and although he understood, he didn't comprehend. He couldn’t help believing it.

He laughed whenever he thought of it, but the fact was he really wished he _had_ killed that bastard Tower.

He couldn't understand why Linda left. He thought . . .

He thought too much. That was just a dream.

*

Gone, for good. She'd broken Hanson's heart all over again.

"Maybe she's right," Penhall shrugged.

"You don't leave someone you love," Hanson said simply. There were few things he had such strong convictions about anymore.

"You do if that's the best thing for them." He was talking to him like he was a kid a little bit but Hanson had to admit he needed it. He could always rely on Penhall to untangle his mind. And anyway it seemed to be the prevailing opinion. She'd said it too.

Penhall sat next to him, arms tightly crossed like he was shielding himself. "That's what she meant."

"Yeah." He still didn't believe it was the right thing to do.

Penhall had left him once, but he'd come back. And was still here now. Hanson smiled.

Hanson certainly looked the part of a bouncer, maybe even a hitman—yeah, Penhall could see that. He was good at fitting into roles. But his smile spoiled it. Hanson smiled at him for a long time.

"Hey, uh, you wanna sit somewhere more—"

"Yeah. I do." Hanson couldn’t seem to stop smiling. He got a hold of Penhall's hand somehow—not his arm, his actual hand—they were now holding hands—and led him to the couch.

Penhall drummed his fingers on the cushions and lifted his head to look at him. "So—"

"Yeah," Hanson said and now there were hands in places—hair and his shirt and mouths now occupying the same part of the room right now. Now. It was the most definite kiss that had passed between them yet and Hanson didn’t seem keen on warming up to it because there was pressure and swiftness and tongue and urgency and he didn't even move back a fraction to breathe but instead let it ghost hotly between their lips. "Yeah."

"Yeah," Penhall echoed. The hand on his chest trailed down his arm, disappeared over one of his wristbands and returned with light electric fingers dancing over the back of his hand. Penhall continued the line and skimmed his hand up Hanson's arm, intent on burying it in his hair but then Hanson's tongue was so silkily caught up in his Penhall could only clutch at his shoulder and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.

Penhall seemed to have kissed him into the couch. Hanson found himself staring up at him, mind gloriously blank and focused on the present. Now.

Hanson looked good, _really_ good a lot of the time. But the array of black clothes he'd been wearing on this case made him look especially good. The turtleneck had made him want to do things to Hanson's jaw long before Linda had gotten to it and left her lipsticked stamp. At least some part of this was a reclamation. Penhall mouthed along his neck and jaw and returned breathlessly to his lips inbetween increasingly until they were really kissing again. Penhall felt arms around his neck and felt Hanson squirming and felt extremely dizzy. He pulled away to collect himself but Hanson pulled him right back and punctuated the next lengthy kiss with an eager _mmf_ and who was Penhall to deny him?

It felt to Hanson like this was where they were supposed to be, here in this world of panting and thrill and wanting more. Didn't feel weird to be in this place with Penhall. He should've been thinking more about who was who and why what was what but he was done thinking, just done, and running on instinct felt a lot better than justifying his job or long lost girlfriends or feelings for his partner. Penhall just felt so right—hold on, that sounds stupid, like saying they were meant to be or some other bull—the thing was that it felt, like, comfortable, you know? No pressure, no thinking required.

Hanson could already pick out the little obsessions Penhall had. Teeth and tongue played along the shell of his ear—he was sporting an assortment of silver earrings which had probably attracted Penhall there in the first place. Sometimes Hanson didn't mind fashion after all.

He'd developed his own obsessions too. Penhall's lips, his arms, eyebrows, black t-shirts, the way he tucked them in—pretty random things when you thought about it but they inspired Hanson to all sorts of courses of action. Maybe it was the contradiction of tucking in shirts so nicely when he was so damn disorderly in ever other aspect. Hanson worked on untucking it and balancing the stimulation spiraling out from spots on his neck and jawline and the inside of his mouth as they kissed hard, deep, oh . . .

And because Penhall was on top of him that meant every movement further tortured his cock until he was really pretty hard for just one make out session. The short-lived prequel kisses made it that much more exciting. And you know what? The only difference in kissing another guy was the scratch of stubble—Hanson couldn't grow a lot of facial hair but what little sheen he possessed served to shield him from Penhall's, at least somewhat. He couldn’t help getting a bit annoyed about it though—why didn't girls ever bring this up? Well, they did, you know, in throwaway comments about looking presentable—aha, it all made sense now. In fact Hanson would imagine having a full on beard would be more accommodating to kissing. Oh, dammit, there was his brain doing the thinking again. He closed his eyes to it and focused on the kiss itself.

Hanson kept squirming, seeking friction unconsciously and the constant shifting of his clothes over his wiry body was just hot. Penhall thought being clothed in situations like this, or missing a shirt or a jacket here, was way hotter than all that skin. That wasn't to say that he had moral objections to Hanson's slow struggle in dislodging some of Penhall's clothes. That was equally hot. Actually most of the things Hanson did were some level of hot in Penhall's book. The guy had a knack.

"God, I'm so—"

"Yeah, I know you're so," Hanson's slightly hysterical laugh puffed through Penhall's hair and he could practically feel his voice vibrating. "Hey, sit up for a sec, will ya?" Hanson didn't actually wait for an answer but instead gave him a shove, wiggled out from under him—both of them half-kneeling on the couch now. A moment of blindness and Penhall's shirt was gone. Hanson seemed about to launch another attack so Penhall flattened a hand against the front of his black pants—jeez he had to be grateful he wasn't in his usual crotch-hugging jeans with that much of a hard on—which halted him pretty efficiently and made him stare into space and hold his breath. When Penhall applied more pressure all Hanson's oxygen came gushing out to land on a high groan. Sounded kinda girly actually but Penhall couldn't care less—it was hot coming from the clearly male Hanson in front of him. God, just _look_ at him. This small taste of a Hanson lost in pleasure was more than enough to reaffirm Penhall's desire and he didn't think twice before scrambling with belt, zipper, pushing powder blue boxers aside and finally touching him.

Penhall did experience a moment of weirdness—this was not in fact his own cock—but then Hanson's hand was gripping his shoulder, the other one digging into the couch cushion, eyelashes hovering over his skin while he uttered inarticulate encouragement and couldn't seem to help moving into Penhall's hand. Penhall made a circle with his finger and thumb and stroked lightly up and down, lingering just below the head of Hanson's cock, knowing how elusively wonderful it felt.

Hanson had been holding back shivers but the thing was Penhall's hand was a hell of a lot larger than any girl's, and rougher in a really good way, and knew what it was doing and was now speeding up he just could not keep himself from reacting—his breaths shuddered in and out and he couldn't even be bothered to feel embarrassed by the sounds he was making. This was without a doubt the most well informed hand job of his life and all he could do was clutch and whimper, weakened and unable to retaliate especially when Penhall's mouth explored the amazing sensitive areas of his neck again. Hanson wasn't used to having so much attention paid to him.

Penhall was pumping his cock with real intent now and Hanson cried out and felt so elevated and shameless he could control his own hands enough to unbuckle Penhall's belt and unzip and find his way to an equally enthusiastic erection.

"Ah God, Tom, _ah_ —"

Penhall's voice, _ugh_ , and Hanson was so turned on and they were both so hard . . . "Ha, yes, um. God, Doug this is, ha, God this is such a turn on—"

"Yeah." Penhall pulled Hanson swiftly close by the front of his shirt to kiss him fervently.

"Mmmmm, oh . . ." Penhall was jerking him off, fast, _ah_ , endlessly good . . . " _Ohhhh_ . . ." He couldn't take it, had to remove Penhall's hand and seize the split second of confusion to slam him against the back of the couch, straddle him and lead the kiss while he continued stroking him, letting his lips move slowly and lightly to contrast the changeable speed of his hand. He felt Penhall's fingers seep into his hair, liquidy, intimate—Hanson led with his tongue and turned the kiss thorough and wet and he was shaking with arousal, bit at Penhall's upper lip and panted and touched his cock randomly with long languorous sweeps of his fingers. He wanted Penhall to do something sudden and hot to him . . .

"You wann _ahh_ , God—you wanna go somewhere more comfortable?"

"Yeah!" Hanson said it so eagerly and wild-eyed Penhall couldn't resist a chuckle. Hanson answered it. "Oh, come on, you're just as ridiculously turned on as I am," he imparted, lowly, smoldering.

Penhall shrugged. "Guilty," he breathed.

He placed Hanson on his feet and backed him into a wall so he could press against him and feel his heart hammering. Hanson found his arms trapped, struggled to free them but Penhall captured his wrists and threw them against the wall too. Heat surged through Hanson—girls wouldn't be rough enough with you, and wanted it too sweet and simple besides (okay Jackie was an exception sometimes). These kinds of struggles were a huge turn on and set his mouth loose: "Ugh, I really . . . _want_ you. Want you so bad, ah—" He gathered his strength—being lithe didn't mean he was lacking in muscle, it just meant he wasn’t a freak about it like, say, Dennis Booker—he dislodged Penhall and danced them to another wall where they reached for each other at the same time and mashed mouths together painfully, long kisses that weakened Hanson's knees and hardened his cock even more. He flung arms around Penhall's neck and felt hands secure at his hips—Jesus he really should've felt like a girl, kissing upwards like this, being held, but his mind was only concerned with how hard he was and how hard Penhall was and how close by his wonderfully accommodating bedroom was. Hanson reached over and opened the door and dragged Penhall through it, walking backwards until he fell on the bed—God he felt drunk on this—putting him in an excellent position to resume stroking Penhall's cock.

Penhall shut his eyes tightly and steadied himself by bunching a hand in the material of Hanson's jacket. Hanson didn't know what had possessed him to wear a turtleneck _and_ a jacket—blame fashion again—cause he was sweating more or less profusely in light of their activities. He shed the jacket, had to take back his hand to do so, figured he'd fling the turtleneck over his head while he was at it, felt the material undoing the work of the gel in his hair, and then Hanson was back to pleasuring Penhall, incorporating his free hand to tease his balls and stroking his cock faster then slower then faster then Penhall pinned him to the bed—sudden sensation all over and Penhall's hand tracing his cock along the vein on the underside and paying blissful attention to the head while his lips wetly traveled Hanson's collarbone, chest, neck, earlobe.

Hanson. Ravishing. God. Penhall couldn't form thoughts anymore. He tried to pull off Hanson's pants but had entirely forgotten about shoes, looked up to find Hanson's face close and urgent.

"I guess—you take off yours and I'll take off mine and then, uh . . ."

"Yeah . . ." They shared a moment of awareness, recognizing who and what they were fleetingly before bouncing apart to yank off shoes and socks, conceding to untie, cursing at pant legs and forgotten belts. Being totally naked would've been a lot starker if their only source of light wasn't dimly reaching from an old floor lamp back in the living room. As it was any awkwardness was held at bay while they kissed and reveled in sudden searing skin.

They felt removed from themselves: the only occurrences in this place were wet noises and shuffling sheets and gasps, rolling here and there and seeming unable to unglue their mouths.

Penhall had been enjoying mapping Hanson's body with his mouth but now that he had Hanson melted and naked before him he could trace his sides and kiss down his chest and stroke his cock while he licked at a hipbone or delved his tongue into Hanson's naval to pull strained little moans from him.

"God, Penhall, uhm—God, just, do you wanna . . .?"

"Huh?" Penhall, disheveled, disoriented.

"Um, you know. Um." Penhall, crawling up his body.

"You look so good, Tommy," he murmured around his chin.

Hanson sighed forcefully. "Okay. Do you wanna have sex? Like, really have sex? Um."

Penhall blinked. " _Oh_ , um. Well, um, how do, how would you wanna . . . oh, jeez."

"I dunno, it's weird, but I think I want to. I dunno why."

"So, uh, you want me to, uh—" Now that he thought about it Penhall really, really did want to and contemplating it was slightly overwhelming.

"Yeah, I guess. I mean, yes. I do. I guess." Hanson laughed at himself. "Yes."

It all happened so fast. Penhall muttered about having hand lotion by his bed—of course he did, and plenty of tissues—and somehow there was a finger inside Hanson which didn't feel like much of anything, positive or negative. Okay maybe the second one was a little more trying, but after a couple of movements in and out he seemed to adjust. It was very straightforward when you thought about it. Penhall was clearly eager so Hanson kissed him languidly and pulled him down and encouraged another finger inside him—Penhall was not slight by any estimation. They kept kissing at one another when Penhall's cock was sliding gradually into him and Hanson had to force himself to relax, distracted himself with Penhall's neck tasting salty and Penhall's mouth connecting to his and then Penhall pulled away—

"Oh, that, _that_ , you are _so_ —oh, this is hurting you. It has to be. Ohhh this, you feel so amazing . . ."

It did hurt. It almost felt okay. But the look on Penhall's face just made him harder despite the pain. "Maybe," his voice was tight, "maybe if you just pull out and then . . . ?"

"Do you think if—"

"I dunno, I mean, once—" Once he had a girlfriend who was a virgin, and she had him pull out and then back in and miraculously it didn't seem to hurt her. But somehow he didn't think he should bring up such detailed accounts of his ex-girlfriends while trying to have sex with Penhall. "I-I dunno, just try it."

"Right, okay. Okay." Penhall was sweating and wild-eyed. He took a deep breath, suddenly very businesslike over the lust. Hanson wanted to laugh, but by that point Penhall had pushed back into him and it made him gasp instead. It was a wholly weird feeling but it still held the promise of pleasure. His eyes were closed, concentrating on it as it receded. "Tom?" Penhall's breathless voice brought him back.

"Oh. Yeah, you can . . . just do it, um."

Penhall looked so worried when he started moving, slowly and shallowly, but it ended up a pretty graceful sort of pace. Hanson developed a counterpoint to it, still seeking the elusive gratification. He watched Penhall becoming lost in the feeling, grunting occasionally. It must have been pretty amazing, considering how much Hanson's body was still resisting.

Penhall really was descending quickly into total abandon now. His steady pace deviated into a deeper thrust and Hanson's eyes flew open. "Ah . . ." That felt . . .

Another deliberate movement tore a cry out of Hanson. " _Ah_ Doug." He mostly mouthed it, staring into space and concentrating on the pleasure.

"Is that—?" Penhall panted.

"Oh my God. Can you, oh just do that again. Just—oh my God. You can go deeper, uh . . . "

Penhall rearranged them to find a better angle and started a harder, more thorough variation on his previous pace. Hanson was dumbstruck by the pleasure screaming through his body. He flung his head to the side, stared desperately at the wall, trying to contain the overwhelming feeling. "Oh my God that feels so good oh my God oh my _God_ , oh, Doug, that's so _good_ — _aaah_ —"

Penhall answered him with a groan. Hard and fast, then slow and deep and so intense it was bringing tears to Hanson's eyes. Maybe it still hurt and he just didn't know it. It was a different side of pleasure, so centered and full—his whole body was affected by it—coupled with the kind of pleasure he was used to, diffused differently, but oh, it was so, so, so good it seemed impossible. Oh, God . . .

Penhall went back to thrusting quickly and Hanson was voicing his approval more lusciously and enthusiastically than any girl he'd been with ever had.

There had been way too much teasing leading to this—years worth, if Penhall was honest with himself—so it wasn't long at all before Hanson came, the sound of it pushing Penhall over the edge more than the feeling—the knowledge of getting Hanson off was dazzling and debilitating—

Hanson was extremely aware of himself: leaden, powerless to move, bubbling with giggles that filled up the space where his mind had been blown away. Extremely aware of Penhall relocating, of how very refreshingly icy the air was that washed over him. They were on the same orgasmic wavelength and Hanson felt entwined with Penhall despite distance. Sounded corny. So, so corny. He didn't meant it like that. It just felt good to enjoy so immensely with somebody you knew immensely well. He fought giggles—his body was weightless, lifted up by amusement and pleasure. He fought it, though.

Until Penhall licked his nose and set him into a brief fit of laughter.

"What the hell, Penhall?" He pushed at him.

Penhall grinned. "It's incredibly straight, I dunno."

"Okaay . . ." Hanson sighed. "That was nice." He smiled to the world.

Penhall touched his hair, flicked it away from his sweaty forehead, smiled.

 

 

*

 

 

He got to work really early.

"Hey, Captain. I've gotta talk to you."

"What about, Hanson? Come on in, have a seat"

Hanson closed the door behind him and leaned against the wall, keeping a considerable distance between himself and Fuller. Unfortunately Fuller noticed _everything_ and he hit him with a relentlessly frank expression.

"Yes?"

"Um," Hanson halfheartedly tried to stop his hand from flying up to scratch at the side of his head, to no avail of course. He sighed and looked directly at him. "Can I take some time off? Can I take the next couple-a days off? I mean, out of my sick days or vacation days or whatever, I mean it's not—it's just—" He sighed pointedly at his babbling. Shut up. "I just need to figure some things out, it's been a rough couple-a weeks, Captain."

Fuller watched him closely. "Yeah, okay, Hanson. Take a week off, do ya good. It will."

"Thanks, Captain, really. I just need to get my head together," he let his voice laugh a little.

"Do ya good." Fuller stood up with some papers in hand, continued watching him, with definite concern now. "Penhall and Ioki can take this next one."

Hanson smiled a frozen smile and nodded. "Yeah. Thanks." He got out of there as quickly as possible.

 

 

*

 

 

When Hanson's plane flew in five days later he went straight to the chapel. Getting away for awhile _had_ done him good.

He felt more clear-headed than he had in awhile and sounded obnoxiously happy even to his own ears when he walked right up to Penhall and said, "Anything exciting happen while I was gone?"

 

 

*


End file.
